


Perfect Little Surprise

by anomieow



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, M/M, Virgin!Goodsir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomieow/pseuds/anomieow
Summary: “Evening, doctor,” he says as he sits down next to Goodsir on the trunk and reaches across to scratch Fagin behind the ears. Briefly, as though in greeting. Then he begins to stroke the cat firmly along the back of the neck, his hand cupped. The gaunt tabby digs his claws into Goodsir’s belly as he presses ecstatically up into Collins’ soothing palm. His purr deepens, becomes faintly rhythmic.“Oh, helikesthat,” Goodsir observes awkwardly, not a little jealous of the rangy tom.
Relationships: Henry Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir
Comments: 13
Kudos: 64
Collections: @terror_exe Flash Fest





	Perfect Little Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> From the @terror_exe prompt “Harry Goodsir/Henry Collins, family, the ship’s cat, the expedition, seduction”

Goodsir knows by the measured, heavy step and scuffed boot-toes, the general impression of breadth, even from the thigh down, who’s coming down the ladder, but nevertheless he calls out, so as not to startle or disturb. Fagin, the ship’s cat lying across his chest, turns his head to regard Collins placidly as he swings round off the last step of the ladder and approaches.

“Evening, doctor,” he says as he sits down next to Goodsir on the trunk and reaches across to scratch Fagin behind the ears. Briefly, as though in greeting. Then he begins to stroke the cat firmly along the back of the neck, his hand cupped. The gaunt tabby digs his claws into Goodsir’s belly as he presses ecstatically up into Collins’ soothing palm. His purr deepens, becomes faintly rhythmic. 

“Oh, he _likes_ that,” Goodsir observes awkwardly, not a little jealous of the rangy tom.

Collins glances at him, smiles. “I was looking for this little git,” he says fondly. “He usually sleeps with me.” He curves his hand round to drag his fingers along the cat’s ribcage, his knuckles gliding along Goodsir’s chest as he does so. “Don’t like to go to bed alone, you know,” he says with a little lift of his brow. It _feels_ like a veiled invitation, but Goodsir can’t imagine it’s meant that way. 

“So that’s where he goes!” He braves a small smile. His breathing feels loud and lacking, like there’s a hand coiled round his lungs; his heart, he’s sure, is hammering so hard Collins can hear it, but is too polite to say anything. “He’s often in the sick bay,” he continues, as though driven by a revolving clockwork key. “Dr. Stanley hates him. He says it’s unsanitary—chases the poor chap out. Kicked him once.” 

“Someone ought to kick _him_ once,” Collins muses, his eyes still on Goodsir. “Or twice.” 

Goodsir feels himself offer another smile, but he’s not sure he means it. Collins gets him terribly—scrambled, somehow, evoking at once a kind of terror and a compulsion to draw closer. Not that they could be much closer, physically speaking, without it being unseemly. Collins’ hip is pressed against his on the trunk they share and his fingers have twice—no, thrice—flitted by accident over Goodsir’s wrist, his hand. The larger man’s head is bowed toward Fagin just so, if Goodsir turned his face an increment he might be able to smell his thick, dark curls. He does not do this. He does not do anything. He fears, absurdly, that if he opens his mouth, each filthy thought he’s had about the other man will tumble out; as though inhabited by demons he will helplessly speak of vile acts—his cheeks color up at the thought, and not entirely out of shame.

“Always have liked cats,” Collins says. “When I was a lad we had one just like this, little gray tabby. A lady cat though. Called her Duchess. Like your Doctor Stanley, Ma tried to keep her from the house—always after her with the broom. She was a fine mouser, otherwise Ma wouldn’t have bore her at all. But Pa snuck her inside the coldest nights. And never drowned the babies, though Ma told him to. They had a few mighty rows about it. But I guess he wore Ma out at some point... we started keeping the kittens too.”

“Oh, I _like_ kittens,” Goodsir interjects. Perfectly harmless. ( _Why, if you were to stroke me like that—_ )

Collins nods. “Sweet things they were for certain. I always loved—you know how they mew, and try to look so fierce. And they’re such wee things! Their little tails up in the air. Did you have pets, doctor?” 

“Father had a dog,” Goodsir says. About this, he has little to say: it was a large, frightening dog, with a bad temper. It loved only his father, and growled at young Harry constantly. But out of politeness and a fear of Collins’ departure, he finds himself talking about his father’s dog anyway, his father, his father’s sternness and his mother’s small and secret kindnesses. He talks a great deal and then falls abruptly silent, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he frets.

“Ah, now. No reason to be sorry, doctor. I do believe that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say—and I like you the better for it.” Collins’ callused thumb grazes the knob of Goodsir’s wrist again and this time he is sure it is no accident. The skin where he’s touched him sings and he licks his lip nervously. He does not miss how Collins’ eyes deepen at this small gesture—a nervous habit, merely, but it makes him feel rich and reckless.

“I like _you,_ Mr. Collins. Very much. I hope I am not misinterpreting anything, but I—“ he sucks in a deep breath, halts. Too great a risk. _Men are hanged for this,_ he reminds himself. But that rough, thick thumb is stroking him steadily now, making light little sweeps across the soft, narrow span of his inner wrist. “You may seduce me, if you’d like. I mean, if that is what you are of a mind to do, and—“

“Well, all right,” Collins replies with a soft laugh. “But it’s hardly one-sided now, is it?”

“No,” Goodsir confesses, abashed. “Hardly.” Fagin gives an insulted meow as he leans down and sets him on the raw wood floor. They watch the cat lope off into the shadows beyond the pool of weak, flickering light given off by the lantern and then turn toward one another.

“Now, for you, pretty one—c’mere—“ Collins murmurs in a soft, fond tone, as though doting on a favorite kitten. He turns so his back is wedged in the space between the wall and a stack of crates, lays his heavy hands on Goodsir’s hips, and with a little grunt maneuvers him onto his lap, his trim thighs astride Collins’ muscular ones. For a moment, Goodsir’s mind is blown empty—he is reduced to the molten jolt of heat this display of strength provokes. He wiggles closer so their cocks are pressed flush through the coarse fabric of their trousers and lowers his head to Collins neck. 

“Already hard for me,” Collins notes approvingly.

“Oh, yes. You manhandling me like that was—phenomenal. I’ve rather a fondness for strong men—and your body, in particular, is a paragon in this respect—ah, God, I’m talking far too much, I’m sorry, I—I’ve all this dammed up, you know—feels humiliating, somehow, speaking of it now, but you should know I think of you when I take myself in hand, how strong you are and your kind smile, and a few things quite more carnal than that. I—am sorry.”

“A pretty little thing like you on my lap, telling me all about how you frig yourself thinking of me? Please. I want to hear all about it. After.”

“After?”

“After,” Collins grins, leaning down to press his mouth against Goodsir’s, who gives a luscious little surprised whimper against his lips. And Collins swears he can feel it, soft as it is, just as he can feel the eager press of Goodsir’s cock against his, can feel the surprisingly proprietary tug of the doctor’s slender fingers in his hair, the scant weight of his other hand across his chest. 

His kisses are astonishingly exuberant and messy, his tongue long and quick and curious. Collins wonders if he is the first man he’s kissed, if he’s the first man at all. Christ, what a thought—it’s already nearly too much, how he’s perched on his lap all supple and nattering like a bird. Collins wants to enfold him in his arms like something delicate and beloved. Not let him go. But he settles for this, this mouth pliant and whimpering and wild against his own. As Goodsir begins to imitate him, corkscrewing his tongue around the tip of Collins’ own in a gliding dance, Collins realizes that he is witnessing—participating in—a seismic shift in the other man’s very being. A disruption and refashioning. It is not to be taken lightly—but it is an honor, too. He’ll not ask, however, if Goodsir is truly a virgin. He suspects he will tell him if he is—tell him that, and a great many other things too. 

Goodsir begins to thrust his hips unconsciously, arrhythmically. Collins gathers his ass into his hands—generous palmfuls given his diminutive stature—and guides him gently toward a rhythm that pleases them both, their shafts gliding along one another in rough mimicry of their tongues. Goodsir breaks the kiss with a gasp and looks down, panting softly, at their hips rolling in tandem. 

“Christ,” he mutters. “That is—something, look at that. Yours is so... it’s phenomenal, really.” His soft voice quavers as he speaks, his words punctuated by half-taken breaths, pretty little gasps. “You’ll recall your physical—I wanted to... quite unprofessional of me to be thinking of it at that moment... but—I wanted to take you in my hand, see if I could make you hard. How much larger it could get. Kneel before you and bring you off, there before Stanley and the rest.” He looks into Collins’ eyes and licks his lips again. A fretful little flick of the tongue. It’s an earnest nervous tic, made all the more powerful for its guilelessness. “Later, in my berth...” he closes his eyes and shoves his sweat-matted hair back from his brow with the outer edge of his palm. Something about such a delicate gesture, in this moment—Collins’ cock twitches. “...in my berth I took myself in hand and imagined—I don’t know what I imagined. You. Filling me, stretching me. I wondered whether I would feel your, your cock empty into me. Is that something one feels? I hope it is. I should very much like to feel you claim me from the inside.”

Collins grabs ahold of Goodsir’s curls and levers his head back, exposing the delicate valleys and curves of his neck, his collar. The sweat he finds there lightly stings his bitten lips. “God, but you’re a filthy lad,” he murmurs. “And I love it, too—it’s like a bit of a secret, isn’t it? A perfect little surprise.” He presses his lips to the base of Goodsir’s neck, sucks and licks. 

Goodsir bucks against him with a high little trembling whine. “Do that again,” he says. “Please.”

“Mmm, this?”

“Ah—Christ—you’ll ruin me for any man who’d come after—“ 

“Jesus—I’d love to—“ Collins sinks his teeth into his lower lip hard enough to draw blood just to keep from spending—for he’s never seen anyone so in want of ruining as this slender man with his reckless tongue, his thick lashes fluttering shut in ecstasy. His lips, full and neatly turned are softly parted, brow knit. 

“You could wreck me,” Goodsir continues, his breath coming in sharp little pants, “and I’d thank you for it. Even this—this feels—it’s nearly too much, it is, rubbing up against you like this. Makes me feel... deliciously base, half feral—a cat in heat, driven to be mounted—please, promise me you’ll—you’ll impale me, please, please say you will—lay your hand on me, Henry, please, I want you to feel this—“ Goodsir pulls Collins’ hand down to cup the head of his prick as with his own slender fingers he lays claim to Collins’. Then he stiffens, clawing at the back of Collins’ neck—it hurts, honest to God _hurts_ , but funnily he doesn’t mind—and spends against Henry’s palm. The warm damp spreading across the cloth like a stain. “Fuck,” he sighs, his voice barely there. “Fuck.”

And of all things it is this, this profanity uttered in the soft and trembling tones of a supplicant’s prayer, that finishes him. That, and the way Goodsir is watching him, heavy-lidded and red-cheeked—a soft wantonness. “You pretty thing,” he hears himself saying as he spends, pistoning up against Goodsir’s skittering touch. “My pretty little dirty thing.”

Afterwards he gathers Goodsir to him, his arms around his shoulders and the smaller man’s ear to his chest. Breathes deep and slow. In the shadow on the other side of the ladder, a small and furtive movement. Fagin stalking. His eyes dull twin gleams in the dark.


End file.
